


(the only game in town)

by nagia



Series: sure to lure someone bad [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/M, Gen, Girl!Stiles, POV Derek Hale, Sheriff Stilinski Almost Finds Out, Stilinski Family Feels, i guess, implied american gods crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:20:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagia/pseuds/nagia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And even worse than the sniffing, she thinks he might have been thinking about kissing her  a couple of nights ago.  The man's old enough to to have a 'scratchy face,' Hale."  The Sheriff communicates his distaste for the idea with air quotes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(the only game in town)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cheloya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheloya/gifts).



> This is probably not going to make it into the main continuity for my girl!Stiles 'verse, but it's too delicious a piece of awkward to pass up. Also, google "Hödekin"/Hodekin for why Derek honoring the non-interference agreement is a _bad, bad idea_.

The call comes two days after the nightclub, right around noon. Derek sees an unfamiliar number and hesitates before he answers. It could be anyone; it could be a wrong number; it could be a threat. 

It could also be Beacon Hills High School. 

That thought decides him, so he answers it. "Derek Hale." 

"Mr. Hale." The Sheriff's tone shades somewhere between pleasant and politely neutral. But voices don't mean anything, not really, and the Sheriff is a professional.

"Sheriff," Derek says, trying not to choke on the word as ten thousand worst case scenarios cycle through his mind.

"Don't worry, Hale, this is just a personal call. I'm about to head down to Hoedekin's for lunch. I thought you might like to join me."

Derek has perhaps three seconds of relief that nothing's happened to Isaac before the paranoia returns. His mother used to issue orders in that same bland, conversational way. It might sound like an invitation, but it's a summons. Did someone see him dragging Stiles out of Jungle?

All he says, though, is, "Sure."

* * *

If Derek weren't a Beacon Hills native — and didn't know that the old man himself makes the single best burger in Beacon Hills — Hoedekin's diner would probably either frighten or appall him. The ceiling is covered in some shiny gold surface that reflects like any mirror. Coca-Cola kitsch is everywhere, from the wallpaper to the salt and pepper shakers on each table to the glass display at the cash register. The speakers buzz tinny and various oldies from a corner, and the coffee has the oilslick shine that means the percolator is never washed.

Derek finds the Sheriff in uniform in one of the back booths. Strangely out of the way for a man who probably needs to be able to leave at a moment's notice. He has a glass with some dark liquid in front of him.

"Sheriff," he says, as he slides into the booth.

"Hale," the Sheriff replies. "How's Isaac?"

"He's alright," Derek replies. "How's Stiles?"

"That's what I wanted to — oh, Kurt." The Sheriff's mouth curls, but the smile is more polite than anything else.

"What can I get you two?" Kurt Hoedekin winks at the Sheriff. "Promise not to tell Miss Stilinski I saw you in here. I'd hate to lose such a longtime customer."

"Well, in that case, a burger and fries for me."

"Keep it simple?"

"Just slather on the grease and salt," the Sheriff says, "and don't let my daughter find out. I hear she has spies in town."

"She'll be running a regular old KGB soon, I bet," Hoedekin says, his wide mouth stretched into an almost grotesque grin. He looks like a shriveled, wrinkled apple. "And what'll it be for you, Mr. Hale?"

Derek doesn't even need to look at the menu. "I'll have the same. And a Pepsi."

Hoedekin, for some ancient reason that may never have actually existed, sells only Pepsi products, despite the decor. Derek is pretty sure that puts this place in the running for nomination as a new circle of hell, but the food is good, and Hoedekin has a reputation for being good company in the diner at two in the morning. Derek never put that to the test, and the old man has never _smelled_ quite right to him, but his mother had a non-interference agreement with him, and Derek is content to let it stand.

"Then we'll have it out to you in a jiff," Hoedekin says, still grinning, and heads to check on another table.

"Is something going on with Stiles?"

"That's the thing," the Sheriff says. He scratches the back of his neck, then leans forward a little. "I've got reason to believe she's been hanging around a little too closely with one of the men in her dancing class. She says she's noticed him sniffing her hair."

And Stiles has good reason to be cautious of people who scent her. There aren't any other wolves in Beacon Hills, as far as Derek knows, but there's been a lot of upheaval, and he might have been too focused on the kanima. He should run a quick sweep and check.

"And even worse than the sniffing, she thinks he might have been thinking about kissing her a couple of nights ago. The man's old enough to to have a 'scratchy face,' Hale." The Sheriff communicates his distaste for the idea with air quotes.

Derek forces himself to stay perfectly still. He says nothing further, not wanting to give the Sheriff ammunition, or possibly tip him off if he hasn't decided that Derek is the man with designs on his daughter.

"Now, I know it can't be you, but I do get the feeling you know her better than either of you wants to admit. I can see you've both got... certain shared politics, let's go with that, and I thought I'd ask you to try and get a name out of her, so I know who to go threaten."

"Certain shared politics?" He asks dumbly.

"I saw the Camaro out by Jungle. You don't have to lie to me, son; I'm not about to judge you. And I'm pretty sure this whole town knows about Stiles's epic but hypothetical love affair with Lydia Martin."

He thinks they're both gay. The Sheriff thinks they're both gay, and that therefore Derek is not the — he schools his face to impassivity, but the words, "Jungle's the only decent dance club in town," force their way out of his mouth.

The Sheriff gives him a flat look. "Son, I have met people who liked to dance. I married one. I'm raising another. You are clearly not a person who likes to dance; you don't even like to shake hands."

"I'll talk to her. I make no promises."

"That's all I can ask."


End file.
